in perfect time

listen: the last waltz, jenn grant and goodbye twentieth century
taste: fresh bread and cafe-au-lait (in a bowl) at the italian gourmet

the rhododendrons are slowly flattening their coldcurled leaves. in point pleasant park, dogs can smell the soft promises of spring and so can i. they can't help chasing tails, quick red squirrels, the overwhelming almost green of the afternoon. a pair of ravens hides in the high crosswork of pine branches, dropping twigs whenever we, the unsuspecting, pass below. i can feel trees begin to stretch against the insides of their bark.
i almost didn't see jill barber last night because i was a bit tired and much too young to go all alone. while fifteen-year-old hipsters giggled and flashed cameras between sets, i leaned against the comforting brick wall, reading myself poetry. eventually, jill barber played - without a mic, without lights, without a stage. instead, we made a kindergarden circle around her feet, while they turned her guitar and her voice round and round under the strange blacklight colours. i wish there were words enough to tell you. i wish you'd been there to hear.